


none, nothing, i don't have it

by gearyoak



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Possessed Billy, Violence, and instead of them meeting to fuck in secret it's them meeting to be in love in secret, basically that one scene but instead of mrs wheeler it's steve, but that's actually off screen it's just implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28488918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearyoak/pseuds/gearyoak
Summary: He feels like he’d been run over, like he’d worked his way through a forty by himself and kept going, but he knew, knew, he wasn’t driving toward home last night.He does move, even though he doesn’t remember wanting to.Doesn’t really remember moving all that much, either. That’s when his breathing comes faster, when he realizes he’s losing seconds - minutes - in between each other. Because he falls asleep but doesn’t, wakes up, comes back, to the sight of his clothes on the floor.Then Billy falls asleep again. Loses minutes. He’s moving down the walkway of the house. Then he’s coming up to his car, his camaro; it’s sleek and blue and glaring in the sun and Billy thinks what? Thinks wait, wait, wait -But he doesn’t really know why, and then he’s gone again.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	none, nothing, i don't have it

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted to write a scene i've been thinking about, steve being the one to come look for him in the pool but like it still doesn't turn out good. they're in like the last stage of almost being in a relationship. toeing the lines of being boyfriends. and the flayer remembers steve and has a grudge. billy has zero (0) idea of what's going on 
> 
> (i have been awake for far too long , let me know if something isn't tagged you want to see taged you know)

Billy wakes up in his own bed and he knows very well that he shouldn’t have.

He feels like he’d been run over, like he’d worked his way through a forty by himself and kept going, but he knew, _knew,_ he wasn’t driving toward home last night. 

His head feels light. His stomach is rolling. His eyes are dry, feels like cotton balls inside his skull. But he doesn’t groan. He does move, though, even though he doesn’t remember wanting to. 

Doesn’t really remember moving all that much, either. That’s when his breathing comes faster, when he realizes he’s losing seconds - minutes - in between each other. Because he falls asleep but doesn’t, wakes up, comes back, to the sight of his clothes on the floor. Leather jacket, wife beater, button up - a good one, he’d been wearing a good one - jeans. Crumpled up into a pile, dropped there.

Then Billy falls asleep again. Loses minutes. He’s moving down the walkway of the house and he notices that the laces to his converses are loose, like he just shoved them on instead of untying them and lacing them back up. Then he’s coming up to his car, his camaro; it’s sleek and blue and glaring in the sun and Billy thinks _what?_ Thinks _wait, wait, wait -_

But he doesn’t really know why, and then he’s gone again. 

Coming back up to the smell of chlorine, and now he’s finally thinking _what happened?_ The heat seems to be radiating off the pavement surrounding the pool - he’s at the pool, now, red trunks, black tank, and chlorine, chlorine - and the sun is bouncing off the water and it’s bright, he can’t see and it’s too hot. Sweat is pooling in the dips of his lower back, collarbone, temples, hair sticking to his face. Something curls and hisses in his stomach and for a moment he thinks he’s going to be sick but then it reaches up, crawling through his chest on a thousand legs until it’s wrapping around his brain. Cold like a flash, gone fast and the heat returns so violently it nearly sizzles. 

Now he’s moving and thinking _what’s happening?_

He gets his fingers through the chain link fence and he’s pulling it open, into the supply closet. It’s shaded in here, but the heat still seeps in. Whatever that cold flash was comes back, but there’s no relief in the chill. More like an omen. Maybe a warning. It feels like he’s supposed to do something about it, so he does, without thinking about why or what he should do or - 

White bottles are lined up on a shelf. Jugs. He uncaps one and his nostrils flare at the stench; chemicals, bright, chlorine, chlorine, chlorine. Billy doesn’t want to, but he does it. Drinks it. Swallows it with his eyes closed like it might make the taste change. He feels his body stiffen with each pull, breathing gets more measured. He’s not panting anymore, but there’s still some shudders. But something’s fighting them. Fighting him. 

Knuckles go white against the handle of the bottle. He’s stopped drinking but it’s a while before he gets it away from him. Sets it back on the shelf.

“Billy?” 

He doesn’t realize he’d gone back down again until he heard the voice. How long’s he been standing here? Did someone come looking for him? Finally his fingers uncurl from around the jug’s handle and they ache but he doesn’t care or maybe he doesn’t feel it - 

“What’s going on, man?” 

_Something,_ Billy’s thinking, _something’s going on._

Movement, footsteps, they’re - Steve - getting closer. It pulls at him again, the chlorine ice in his chest, but he tries not to because that feeling is back. That ominous chill. It was fighting him before but now he’s fighting _it._

Steve’s voice is white noise. They’re both thrashing inside. Thousands of legs, black pitch coating his spine. It’s something, it’s definitely something. 

“Fuck off,” he’s able to grit out. He cuts Steve off when he does, but he hasn’t been able to listen to what he’s saying anyway. He doesn’t care. It feels important, getting away from the other. But he can’t go. He’s working, or trying to, or supposed to. 

“Okay,” Steve says - bitches, but the tone is off. It almost sounds like he’s defending himself even though Billy hasn’t said anything before that. Doesn’t think he has, doesn’t remember, really. “You weren’t the one who got stood up, asshole, so - “

Billy remembers taking back roads too fast, too risky, seeing his own smile in the rearview mirror. He remembers deliberating over his shirt, wondering if having it unbuttoned all the way down to his navel was too obvious, too forward. Other than that, the shirt itself had been fine. It was one of his nicer ones. It was good.

“Okay,” Steve’s saying again. Maybe cutting himself off this time. “Okay, I’m not actually mad, I swear, it’s just - sorry. You went fucking AWOL and I didn’t know what to do if, like, if something actually happened - “ 

It’s throttling him all of a sudden, grabbing Billy by the lungs and twisting. Biting, scratching, clawing for control. And for a moment, it does. Takes it. Seizes it and holds. Spins Billy around with a raised arm. He can just make out the way the other’s eyes widen, whiskey brown burning with shock. But Billy knows what he’s going to do before he does it so he looks away, shuts his own eyes. Steve’s head cracks like whip against shelving.

And Billy’s _hating_ him.

Relishes in the blood sticky red on his fingertips. 

The wet gasp, the cry of pain.

Goddamn King Steve, Steve fucking Harrington, a blight to Hawkins, a sickness that’s festered ever since he’d been brought to this shitty town. Infecting, filling his veins and pulling at them until they spark and catch fire -

“Dude, are you - would you just turn around?” 

Billy comes up. He’s gripping the bottle of chlorine again. He doesn’t actually think he ever set it down. His forearm is aching from the strain. It’s not heavy. He’s holding it like it is. 

“Fuck off,” he tries again. Desperate now and that - that doesn’t sit right, never has with Billy. There’s something in him, there always has been but now it’s got a twin and it’s yanking at him. One was always hard, two is cornering him and leaving him snarling. Lashing out. Fearful and wild. He hates it. He hates this. 

“Just let me _see.”_

Billy does, as a point. Jerks around and _means_ to. Watches Steve’s eyes rake over his face, looking. Searching for an excuse in the shades of purple or red, looking for an explanation behind a swollen face or a bloody nose. He sees the exact moment confusion shifts into realization and he knows it’d be bitter if he was tasting it for himself. 

He relishes _in this._ A safer kind of pain. 

“Stay the fuck away from me, Harrington.” 

It hurts, Billy knows it does. Sees it in the way Steve sets his jaw hard. He makes himself believe he doesn’t care, because there’s ice in him now. Cold and slick and black; pitch, pitch, pitch. And it’s freezing him from the inside out, turning him into glass and it feels like anything’ll make him shatter and then he’d be gone. He needs Steve out of here before he gets caught in the shards of Billy that get left over. 

Steve’s arms cross tightly over his chest. He doesn’t move and after a second passes, Billy thinks he might not at all. He stares at a spot somewhere behind Billy, over his shoulder, mouth open like he might say something. When he does, it’s only after he clenches his jaw again. 

“Fine.” He shakes his head, scoffs. Repeats, _“Fine.”_ The chainlink fence clatters as Steve shoulders it open. 

Billy watches him go, makes himself do it. It’s right then that he notices that Steve’s dressed in his work uniform. The open zip-up hoodie had been obscuring most of it.

He keeps watching. 

Steve had come looking for him. Spent the few hours before his shift coming after Billy. 

He keeps watching. 

And it gets worse. 

He’s opening his eyes in the chair overlooking the pool. The sun’s a splotch in the middle of the sky, unrelenting. His skin is screaming because of it. Elbow singed. It pulls him up to his feet; Billy’s sure the only reason he doesn’t topple over is because of It. ‘Cause It’s walking him after that. Not stabley. His shoulders knock into some kid’s, his fountain drink dropping to the ground. Ice scatters across the pavement and Billy watches it, mouth feeling dry. 

The showers are empty. Too early in the day for people to be rinsing out pool water before they go home. He stands under a head toward the end before he even gets the faucet turned on, but there’s really no reason to. Wasn’t going to wait for it to warm up anyway. 

Water spits out and when it ghosts over the burn on his arm it’s agonizing. The pain sears his blood black and it climbs. Spiderwebs across his skin. Billy watches it. Screams. It’s different this time when he goes under. Isn’t like going to sleep this time. It’s like being put away. Like the thousand legs roiling around inside him have got arms to go along with them and they’re dragging him - somewhere. Turning him inside out or making him smaller. Making room for itself but keeping him close, drowning just below the surface. 

So he sees it. And feels it. How his body goes rigid again. How his screams stop without a whimper, like he’d never been crying out in the first place. Watches his hands grab Heather by the throat. Feels _her_ blood, sticky red.

He’s there, all the way, horribly lucid, dropping her barely conscious body in a basement of an abandoned mill. Holding her down by the shoulders as she wailed. Listening to his voice whisper, “Just stay very still.” 

The shadows in the basement move, trilling and sloughing. Heather begins writhing, but Billy doesn’t have to hold her anymore. It’s got her, and the It inside him is thrumming around what’s left of Billy. Proximity to this thing swallowing Heather whole, maybe. He still doesn’t know what’s happening or why it’s happening to him. He just _watches._ Until it covers her. Then her screams are muffled, then they stop.

 _I wanna wake up,_ he’s thinking. _Please, fuck, just let me wake up._

**Author's Note:**

> im trevsawriter on tumblr if you want to like look at that :)


End file.
